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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23285218">Small Blessings</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybun/pseuds/honeybun'>honeybun</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sabou/pseuds/Sabou'>Sabou</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Commune Naufragium [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Pilgrimage (2017)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Requited Unrequited Love, Secrets, Touch-Starved, Unresolved Romantic Tension</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 03:33:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,082</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23285218</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybun/pseuds/honeybun, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sabou/pseuds/Sabou</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>This was created as part of a series of other short stories. </p><p>Diarmuid counts his blessings daily, when he was younger and Brother Ciáran had less grey in his beard, he’d tell Diarmuid to count a blessing for each of his fingers and toes, twenty a day! </p><p>It’s a practise he still uses, and with David in his life, the blessings come easier than ever.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Brother Diarmuid/The Mute</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Commune Naufragium [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1670629</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>32</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Small Blessings</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It was Diarmuid’s choice to follow this life - some might say it was chosen for him, but he was grateful for it nonetheless. He felt no real envy, and worried only about things within his small world, he was assured that the life he led was relatively free from harm of any kind, free from luxuries also. But he paid that no mind. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t fine clothes or jewels he craved, he didn’t chase lofty dreams of travel or riches. He was comfortable just as he was, in his small monastery, in the evenings seeing his friend walk back from the fields after a hard day. He knew it would soon be time for prayers, then. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>While he tried hard not to covet things, as he grew older there were certain- not </span>
  <em>
    <span>things</span>
  </em>
  <span>, no, more experiences, that he grew to want. He was a needy thing, his older brothers would sometimes comment that as a young boy he was always wanting to hold onto one of them. Diarmuid didn’t do that now, but he would ring his hands and nibble at the sleeve of his robe, he would fiddle and wear down the end of a book from stroking it between his fingers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span> covet. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>One day far into the Winter months, when snow holds up the doors of the monastery and a terrible flurry comes through when anyone opens it, he helps his friend get more firewood in. There are stores next to the kitchen, and on the other side of the monastery. His friend holds his thick leather coat around him as he fights through the wind, and Diarmuid’s job is to huddle by the open door and receive the wood. The brother’s don’t need to know he didn’t get it himself, his friend wouldn’t let him anyway. Nevertheless, his teeth chatter and his fingers go numb against the wood of the door. David’s heavy footsteps fall into inches of snow as he walks back. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Once close enough he grunts at Diarmuid to move aside, and he then closes the door swiftly behind them both. Diarmuid does help then, he takes up chunks of wood to stack into a basket he’d made in the Autumn, and tests the handle to see how heavy it is. His fingers are frozen still, and don’t grip properly, scrabbling a little and letting his palm take the weight. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Before a moment has passed, David’s warm, warm hands are cupping his, and Diarmuid doesn’t let himself acknowledge his legs become weak as his friend pulls Diarmuid’s hands gently towards his mouth and blows, hot and steady against them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Diarmuid doesn’t want to ask if this is sinning, he’s quite sure he’d know the answer, Brother Rua would look at him with crisp disappointment and ask him is it the act which is sinning, but how he felt? Diarmuid knows there is only innocence in the way his friend warms him, but how he feels, that’s where the trouble is. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s these small blessings - and indeed, what Brother Rua might see as sin - he keeps, a secret only for the two of them. He doesn’t know why he pretends to himself that they’re just as special to the lay brother too, that it isn’t just Diarmuid’s overactive imagination again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Small blessings come thick and fast with his friend. All to be held and kept safe, Diarmuid grasps them swiftly and pinches them between his fingers. At night he unfurls them to act out again, remembering each time night falls how his friend had been so sweet with him.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There are the small gifts he brings back from his walks, checking the perimeters of the grounds, colourful feathers, hag stones with natural holes through the middle, a pale blue duck egg left cold. He doesn’t want to think of what would happen should one of the brother’s find out about it. They are just small things, but they are still forbidden. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Other times there’s blackberries, fat and ripe picked from one of the thin dirt tracks that run to town. David’s sleeve is a little purple from juice. Diarmuid greedily eats them up and takes pleasure in the sweet and tart taste, thanks God for such delicious things existing here, and for his friend who brings these treasures to him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He is sitting on quite a collection of treasures when it happens, his friend strides up to him one evening and Diarmuid, as unsure as he always is, looks left and right to see whether it’s him he wants. David looks at him with an unwavering glance and his arm extends, presenting something wrapped in cheesecloth, something heavy that smells of resin. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Diarmuid furtively looks around himself again and makes sure no one else might see, and carefully picks apart the knot at the top. His friend's hand is wide and broad enough to hold the entire thing in one, and Diarmuid lets out a little gasp once it’s uncovered.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A carved box. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He knows for certain this must have taken his friend many nights sitting to carve by candle light, perhaps why his thumb is bandaged with a little spare cloth today. He had seen him carve before, just aimlessly while sitting for a break, but he had no idea he could produce something such as this. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Diarmuid touches it carefully, with reverence, the wood is smooth all around and cool to the touch, on the lid are patterns and stars, twists and shapes intricately made in the grain of the wood. He’s never been given a gift before, not really. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His friend doesn’t smile easily, but Diarmuid can always tell he’s content, and when something’s bothering him. When he glances up at him after letting his fingers pluck and stroke the details of the box, his friend is smiling. His full lips stretch out a little and he thinks he may even have dimples, his eyes crease at the sides and Diarmuid wonders whether his life before landing here was a happy one. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>‘They’ll- What if they find it?’ Diarmuid whispers, as if there might be someone listening now.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>David gestures towards himself, pulling the box back to his chest, ‘Oh, yes, you keep it, that’s a good idea.’ His friend nods and thick curls fall into his eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>‘I’ll come to you after prayers, okay?’ His friend nods, his other hand which has been holding a shovel rests the tool on his hip merely to stroke Diarmuid’s cheek gently, understanding, soft. Diarmuid nods and for a moment he can’t help but stare into the laybrother’s warm brown eyes as they stand there together.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Soon enough Diarmuid pulls himself away, cheek red and tingling. He rushes off and almost trips on his way, out of breath and turning back to wave at David. He is standing in the same place and smiling still, he raises his free hand to Diarmuid and waves back. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Diarmuid can feel the anticipation and excitement building in him, and he can barely sit still and concentrate during prayers, he’s sure he gets a look of irritation or two from Brother Rua who sits next to him and lays a firm hand on his jiggling leg at one point to still it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Finally, after fidgeting and mumbling his way through prayers, he is free to go. He waits for the others to go to bed, and then a little longer until he hears a few in the dormitory snoring. His bare feet tap quietly on the cool flagstones, his warm robe makes a soft whisper as he turns around the corner. There is no sound, and little light as he makes his way to where his friend stays. A little stable where they keep their small flock of animals, in a room to the side with a fire and a bed, a bowl for washing and somewhere to keep his thick coat and extra blankets. It could get cold out here away from the embrace of the monastery. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Diarmuid near trips in the dark, his pockets heavy with the weight of treasures inside them, filled with covetous secrets. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When he arrives at the door there is no need to knock, as his friend has sensed his coming, as he always does, and waits patiently by the threshold. He is admitted and stops to look about the place, something special here always, when he can see the lay brother’s living space, this too is a little blessing in itself. David hands him a warm cup of something, when Diarmuid drinks it he can taste sweet milk mixed with lavender and camomile. So soothing it almost puts him to sleep right there. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His friend rummages again and brings out the box, now Diarmuid can properly look, he takes long moments to feel the carving and comment on it, more a constant babble interspersed with excited gasps. He hears a huff and looks up to see his friend smiling at him, almost laughing. His legs are spread far apart as he sits by the table to the centre of the room, Diarmuid isn’t sure what causes him to pause so much, but he flushes when he realises, and looks away. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>To ignore the twinge in his stomach he takes his treasures from his pockets, and starts to arrange them in the box. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>‘I’d worry, you know, that one of the Brother’s might find them, and I’d be so sad to take them away,’ his friend frowns and his lips purse together as if to say he wouldn’t have let them. Diarmuid shakes his head, ‘It’s awfully kind of you, really…’ </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There is silence in the small room, and Diarmuid lets himself fiddle with curiously patterned stones, ‘Remember when you found these?’ he asks quietly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>David leans forward and then confidently nods his head, brings up a broad hand to comb through his curls and then points due South.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>‘Yes, by the river down there,’ Diarmuid smiles, that he remembers. David nods, then, budging his chair up further towards Diarmuid, he picks out a feather which changes colour as you spin it, from a brilliant pheasant they’d had in the Autumn, ‘Yes, from the forest, right?’ he nods.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A thick finger prods into the box and brings out a delicate shell, held gently between a large thumb and forefinger. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>‘Mmm, from the beach, remember?’ David nods, a hand making a gesture into thin air, ‘Sunny, yes, I remember too,’ Diarmuid scrunches his nose at the memory, how he’d wished to take off his robes and swim in the sea, but couldn’t. He had wondered if his friend could, but wasn’t sure how he’d ask. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>David points to the box then, frown back, his finger circling in the air, and then pointing to his own chest, ‘Yes, all from you,’ Diarmuid answers, nodding and putting in the last few things, checking his pockets for more.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He looks pained then, and Diarmuid doesn’t know why. He gazes into the wooden box and swallows, thick thumb stroking the lid.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Into the quiet of the room, Diarmuid whispers ‘Thank you for all of my things,’ and David closes his eyes. He can see the masculine lump in his throat bob up and down as he does it, Diarmuid wants to feel it under his hand, find out what it’s like. Suddenly there is nothing more he wants than to comfortably sit in the space between David’s thighs, or to be kept in a special wooden box himself. Suddenly, as he never has done before, he wonders what it might be like if the two of them had met outside of the life of the monastery. He imagines a cottage, always well stocked with wood, and the warmth of his friend’s palm against his.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The bell tolls and startles them both from their own thoughts, staring at one another as they had been for some time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>‘I-I must go,’ David is turning away from him already as if it pains him to do so. He waves a hand in the air to signal Diarmuid should go. As he does, Diarmuid grabs it and holds it in his, pulls it towards his stomach and twines his fingers against David’s. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>David looks at him, and Diarmuid’s ears buzz, his friend is always so gentle and harmless, but in the light of the candle now, he looks more than that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Before Diarmuid can let himself - he doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> what - the bell tolls again, and he flees.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s the small blessings in life. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hope you enjoyed the second installment of this little snippet series! I plan to write two more - we both really love reading your comments and I must say it really is touching and encouraging when I see people enjoying the work &lt;3 </p><p>lots of love, look after yourselves &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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